Bricks
by Phelidae
Summary: A doctor, a detective and a definitive district.


**A/N**_: Here's my first public fic, hope you like it!_

_I'll be mainly posting to Ao3, mostly because I constantly forget that this site exists. So posts here will probably just be up a few days after those on Ao3._

_Follow me on tumblr at the url 'phelidaee'! (please?)_

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John has just seated himself at Mike's table for dinner when he hears the front door being thrown open in the next room. He jolts and automatically turns to Mike in surprised questioning, but his friend just looks at him with a worried expression. John grabs the knife next to his plate in case he needs to defend himself when an angular and all too familiar figure strides into the room, looking vehemently unhinged. Caesious eyes find John instantly and lips curl into a sneer. John stands up quickly, his chair squeaking across the wooden floors in protest, and tosses the knife back onto the table with a clatter.

"Get out, Sherlock," he spits, anger and panic boiling in his chest. Sherlock crosses to him and grips his elbow with furious pressure. John refuses to wince as Sherlock jerks him forward and looms over him. He leans down to speak slowly, just inches from his face.

"Come home." His voice is laced with the promise of punishment. John takes a breath in an attempt to calm himself and mentally wills Sherlock to the same, but the man just stares down at him in expectant anger.

"I'll meet you at the flat later, we can talk then, but you need to go." He darts a nervous look to Mike and attempts to send him a reassuring smile.

"You think you can just leave?" Sherlock hisses, a sharp edge to his voice. John feels his ears burn in uneasy embarrassment. He no longer wants to be standing in Mike's dining room.

"Yes, I know that I can. I don't need to get your permission to do so." John twists his arm free and shoves Sherlock pointedly in the chest. The detective takes a bracing step backwards but doesn't look away from him. John turns to his friend with as much of an apologetic face as he can manage in his moment of flustered rage. "I'm sorry, Mike, erm, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, I'll text you later. I'm really sorry if he's busted your door." And then he's herding Sherlock out of the house and into the brisk night.

Sherlock brushes him off and turns to stride ahead. John follows wordlessly until he sees a small alley to their left between two houses and he shoves Sherlock into the dank row of space just as the man had begun to raise his hand to hail a cab. Sherlock snarls and takes a small step away, looking down at him in disgust.

"What the hell was that?" John demands.

"You cannot just _leave_," Sherlock snarls, voice as venomous as John has ever heard it and chest heaving with irritated breaths.

Their day had started out fairly normal. John had come downstairs to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa still in the suit from the previous day, hands pressed together pensively beneath his chin. He'd clearly failed to get any sleep and John headed directly into the kitchen to make tea.

That was when he found the decomposing skull of a house cat in the kettle.

So ensued an argument featuring Sherlock's favorite game of 'Insult John to the very core of his being', two broken microscope slides and vulgarity loud enough to upset Mrs. Hudson into coming upstairs, hair still in rollers. Sherlock had wordlessly brushed past her and grabbed his coat from behind the door before disappearing down the stairs. John apologized halfheartedly for their outburst, cleaned up the broken glass and didn't make tea. Several hours passed without sign of Sherlock's return, nor a single text. John had then moodily snatched his own jacket from the rack and left to meet Mike at his place for dinner, which was apparently now proving to be a serious issue for Sherlock.

"Do you know what sort of questions Mike is going to ask me later?" John asks, deliberately ignoring him and knowing how much he despises it. "I can't believe you just stormed into his house like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I ruin the precious little date with your dearest friend?" Sherlock sneers.

"No, actually, that's tomorrow evening," John corrects in faux cheer. "Dinner with Sarah." Sherlock knows he's lying, of course he does, but the look on his face shows John that his words had the intended effect.

"John." It's a warning. Sherlock's voice is tight and he's all but stopped breathing now. The small space that divides them is radiating with tension. It only encourages John further.

"At that nice little place you took me to last week, remember? We both know how well that evening ended for the two of us, I can only hope it goes half as well between Sarah and–"

"_Shut up_," Sherlock snaps suddenly. "You are mine, not hers, _mine_. Now stop it."

"I don't belong to you."

"Yes," Sherlock spits through gritted teeth, "you do." John can see the detective's control dwindling and there's a spark of excitement at the prospect.

"_You don't own me_," John says finally and maliciously. It's a blatant challenge, he knows that. And he crosses his fingers that Sherlock will rise to it.

He doesn't disappoint.

He grabs John by the lapels of his coat and knocks him back against the wall with a furious snarl. A thrill runs through John just before his skull cracks against the bricks and for moment he only sees stars, but then Sherlock's mouth is crushed against his and his senses return tenfold. John is immediately digging his fingers brutally into Sherlock's narrow hips and kissing him back. It's all teeth and tongues, it's mostly pain and it shouldn't feel as good as it does, it shouldn't send electric pulses through John's spine.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp and drags his nails across Sherlock's neck when little pinpricks of white burst behind his eyelids as Sherlock presses a leg between his own. John scrambles at the uppermost buttons on Sherlock's shirt and attacks the column of exposed neck, scraping his teeth across the sharp angle of his collarbone. He nips at the soft flesh and relishes the rare sapor that composes Sherlock's skin. Sherlock gives a guttural groan and yanks John's head back up and reconnects their mouths. John loses himself in the slide of tongue and the overwhelming _closeness _of Sherlock. He still isn't used to this and hopes he never will be. The detective pulls away just enough to push their foreheads together until John's head is pinned between Sherlock's and the wall.

"Nobody else gets to see you like this, only me," he says quietly, sounding as if he hasn't had a drink of water in days. He kneads at the front of John's trousers roughly and John swears, gripping at Sherlock's shoulders to keep his knees from giving way. John forms a breathless smirk as the word 'more' dances desperately through his otherwise hazy mind.

"For now, anyway. You aren't the only one who's seen me like this before, not by a long shot –" A bitter look infects Sherlock's face and his hands dive under John's jumper and scratch down his ribs, he bites off a gasp and keeps talking. "And sometime in the future, it'll be someone else touching me. Someone else will kiss me and –"

"Shut up!" Sherlock barks, desperately pressing the entire length of his body against John's. "It's only me now, I'm all you have, there is no other option. If you ever try to leave me, I'll find you, you know I will. You can't leave me." He stops, frowns, and then says firmly, "You won't." He slides to his knees and makes quick work of John's trousers. He buries his hands in Sherlock's hair as the man kneels before him, his mouth a hair's breadth from John's cock, breath hot and damp as he continues to speak. John's eyes roll in his head from the slight sensation alone. "I'll make you forget anyone who has ever dared touch you." He grips John with his right hand John huffs out a breath of air, mind fogging over but still very much listening to Sherlock. "You'll only ever remember my hands, my mouth." He drags his tongue from base to tip and John can't suppress a whimper. Sherlock blows cold air along the damp trail he's left and something curls dangerously beneath John's navel. "Do you understand me?" John cants his hips forward in desperation but Sherlock just pushes him back with his free hand.

"Yes, yes I understand," he gasps quickly.

"Say it," Sherlock whispers.

"Fuck, Sherlock, if you don't –"

"Say it," Sherlock repeats darkly, his right hand tightening.

"Nnnoh god, okay, okay. I'm yours, I'm yours and I always will be. Only you, Sherlock, of course, you complete berk."

"Will you ever leave me again?"

"I didn't leave you, I told you–"

"I came home and you weren't there," he interrupts, "you had left."

"I _told _you at least three times last week that I had scheduled to meet Mike tonight," John fights weakly, simultaneously wanting to prove to Sherlock that not all John said was 'pointless blabber' and honestly not caring what Sherlock did so long as it involved his mouth and John's cock. Sherlock rolls his eyes but drops to subject.

"If anyone ever tries to take you from me, I will kill them," he promises. John's stomach squirms at the words.

"Sher–" He cuts himself off with a moan of relief as Sherlock swallows him down and he drops his head against the wall, eyes slipping shut.

In the beginning, he thought that Sherlock's possessiveness of him had frightened him. He says things that are not, by any means whatsoever, fine. He has a conniption every time John's eyes linger on another individual for a fraction of a second too long. John thought that he was actually going to punch the nurse who couldn't find John's vein when trying to draw blood after a particularly brutal case. Sherlock would just as soon drop a twelve year old little girl as he would a thirty year old man if they got too close to John. Each time he was reprimanded for gazing at a pair of legs in a skirt, or Sherlock promised a horrifically descriptive death to the burglar that had dared to hold a gun to John's head, it would cause an uncomfortable stirring in John's stomach. He'd always assumed it was a bit of fear, but he would brush it off because it was Sherlock and he _knows _Sherlock.

Mycroft had brought him to some dramatically abandoned building and warned him the day after they'd first had sex. John tries not to think about how he'd known about that.

_"He's not a good idea, Dr. Watson, it's a dangerous notion. He will use you until you're broken, and Sherlock Holmes has no use for broken toys."_

Lestrade had confronted him about it a few weeks ago, at a crime scene shortly after Sherlock had threatened to inject hydrofluoric acid into Anderson's veins after the man had scorned an observation John had made. His observation had been incorrect, something Sherlock himself told him later on, but the detective still decided to use it as an excuse to shift into his frightening, avaricious state. It didn't take much when it was Anderson who was provoking it.

_"Oi, you and Sherlock, everything alright there? I don't mean to pry, but, well he's a right nutter and I don't want – no that's not what I mean. I know he would never – well, you'll let me know if you need anything won't you?"_

He eventually realized that the feeling in his gut was something very different than fear and ever since he's been pressing Sherlock's buttons and egging his greed on. He ought to feel bad, but he really doesn't. Not when it has yet to not end in both of them gasping for breath, post-orgasm. The day when Sherlock says 'mine' in that sonorous voice and five liters of blood _don't _rush directly to John's groin, he'll stop purposefully starting these arguments.

John's toes curl in his shoes and he's panting, mouth open and hands tugging at Sherlock's hair weakly. Sherlock moans in appreciation and the vibration nearly sends John over the edge entirely. He jerkily pushes Sherlock away by the shoulders, Sherlock frowns and attempts to go back but John tugs at his biceps, encouraging him to stand.

"With you," he gasps, pulling Sherlock's mouth down to him when he stands. "I want to with you," John mutters around Sherlock's insistent tongue. He undoes Sherlock's trousers enough to get his hand in and pull Sherlock's cock into the open. Sherlock shudders and thrusts into John's hand, his mouth leaving John's and instead clamping his teeth onto the side of his neck. John makes a noise of frustration. "Damn it, Sherlock, you're too bloody tall," he hisses angrily after realizing that their hips aren't going to line up if they're standing. Sherlock doesn't say anything, instead he bends his knees slightly and slides his hands just under John's arse and then John feels his feet leave the ground.

John is about to object to being lifted like some bird but then Sherlock's spindly fingers wrap around the both of them and John crushes their mouths together to keep from crying out. He'll reprimand him later. For now, he pulls Sherlock in closer by his legs that had instinctively wrapped around the detective's narrow frame and Sherlock willingly leans into him. Bricks dig at John's back through his coat and his head is beginning to throb from where it collided with the wall, but both sensations are tenuous in comparison to the ardent pulses wracking his body with each slide of Sherlock's hand.

"Nn, fuck, Sherlock," John gasps suddenly when Sherlock swipes his thumb over the tip of John's cock. "I can't –" He chokes on his words as he struggles to keep his voice down when he suddenly comes with a cruel tightening of Sherlock's hand, his body jolting with pleasure.

The man before him has stilled and John feels a rush of a terrified thrill douse his body when he sees those impossible eyes watching him hungrily. Sherlock slowly lets him to his feet before starting to reach for himself but John bats his hand away. John grips him with a still trembling hand and a very small noise escapes his perfectly bowed lips, eyes fluttering closed and hands twitching at his sides. John only manages a few strokes before Sherlock tenses and gives a shuddering breath. John doesn't appreciate his ability to manage utter silence and quickly decides he's going to give him no choice in making noise when they get home.

John absentmindedly wipes his hand off on his own shirtfront and Sherlock makes a disapproving noise. "You're always so wasteful, John," he murmurs as he pulls a slender hand up between them and John watches with wide eyes as Sherlock brings the extremity to his mouth. His tongue is shockingly pink against the contrasting paleness of his hand, darting over his palm and between his fingers until there's nothing left and his skin glistens damply. He smiles pleasantly at John, who is still struggling to keep his feet under himself, as if he _didn't _just lick his come from his hand. John swallows down a thick sensation in his chest, licking his lips in an unconscious habit. Sherlock's smile is short lived and he frowns slightly at the state of John's shirt before moving to zip his jacket up for him. He then buttons his own coat with overly precise movements. "I hope I made my point," he says finally, fixing John with cold eyes. John folds his arms over his chest and raises an expectant eyebrow. Sherlock stares back stubbornly for a few moments before his posture slumps slightly. He brings a gentle hand to Johns face and kisses him with a tenderness John wouldn't have believed Sherlock Holmes' possessed prior to this stage of their relationship, but has now come to live for. He pulls back enough to meet John's eyes.

"I know," John says firmly. Sherlock nods and straightens. "But you really cannot repeat tonight's events ever again." Because regardless of superb sex, John really was going to have to answer some awkward questions from Mike in the near future.

"I didn't break his door," Sherlock says in place of an actual answer, "I picked the lock."

"Yes, well people don't much appreciate knowing their locks are able to be picked, either." Sherlock snorts.

"Any idiot with a hairpin could pick the lock on Mike's door." John doesn't doubt Sherlock's rightness and makes a note to tell Mike to have his locks changed.

"You also can't threaten to murder people over me, that's not very, er, normal."

"You killed the cabby," Sherlock counters immediately.

"Well, yeah, but that was–"

"After only twenty four hours, you murdered for me. After over two years, do you really think murder is _all _I would do?" John looks to him, taken aback. Sherlock's hair is impressively mussed, the suit beneath his coat is far more wrinkled than he ever allows them to become and his eyes show that he's been without a proper night of sleep for at least four days. He has the overall appearance of an incomprehensibly strung-out individual. He should look terrible, he _really _should, but he's somehow managed to look nothing short of absolutely breathtaking.

John blinks stupidly at him and Sherlock, apparently deeming the conversation to be through, turns on his heel to walk back to the main road. Then, seeming to be struck with a second thought, he freezes in his steps. John watches curiously for a moment before Sherlock's right hand flashes out to grab John's left without him ever looking back. He laces their fingers together firmly and tugs him forward. "Come along, John, there's an experiment in the kettle waiting for us."


End file.
